They were both near, perilously near, saying many things to each other, but that unexplainable conversational barrier which holds up the traffic of speech had risen between them. For six days it had been thus, six days in which they had not expressed a word that was not commonplace. That night at the club it had seemed easy enough to Wynne to come and tell his wife that red blood was coursing in his veins, and white carelessness had thrown an arm about his shoulders. It had seemed a simple and an honest confession. She was concerned in him, and had a right to know. Yet try as he would his pluck broke down before the ordeal. He could do no more than look at her furtively and postpone. Wynne hated himself when he shirked a deed. Want of courage galled him, and the knowledge that he lacked the temerity to put his intentions into words seemed to clip the wings of the new mad impulses which possessed him. All the while Eve knew there was something he wanted to say, but she could not fathom what manner of thing it might be. Thus from his silence grew her own, each waiting for the other to begin. The day before he had telephoned to the Cosmopolis for rooms. He and Esme were going down by the 9.15 that night. As an understudy it was easy for her to be released from appearing at the theatre on the Saturday. If Eve were to be told it would have to be at once, for the appointment with the British Drama Association was at eleven o’clock. He put a cigarette in his mouth and tapped his pocket for matches. “Empty,” he said. “I’ll get you some.” “Doesn’t matter.” “I’m going to the kitchen with these things.” As she went from the room carrying the tray he noticed how shabby she was. He was not irritated, but it seemed wrong, somehow. Presently she returned and laid a box of matches on the table. “Thanks. I—” “Yes.” “I shall want a box. I’m just going out.” “I see.” “Got to—er—see some people. Might be rather good. Do my play, perhaps, and a big production job. Quite good, it might be.” “I’m glad.” “Yes. ’Pointment at eleven. There’s—er—. Didn’t you want some furniture for this place?” “No,” said Eve. “Thought you said—” “I may have done—but—” “No reason why you shouldn’t have it.” A vague hope took shape, but it was too vague to risk encouraging him to say more. Often before the hope had arisen, only to fall to dust. She made no answer. “No reason at all why you shouldn’t have it,” he repeated, “or any clothes you want. Don’t you want some clothes? You do.” Still she made no answer. “Come on.” “I want clothes—yes.” “Well, get them, I mean.” “Is that all—all you mean?” “Yes, I think so.” “I don’t want any clothes,” said Eve. He looked at her uneasily, then at his watch. “I ought to be off.” She nodded. “Shall you be back?” He hesitated. “Probably; but don’t keep anything for me if I’m late. I may—be late.” As the door closed Eve said, very gently: “Oh, we’re having a hell of a life.”